Last Ship Off Polaris-G: A Central Galactic Concordance Novella Page 4
He already knew where Gulorom, the system drive engineer, was, so that was cheating. He extended his talent farther and discovered a glowing tangle of colored threads he recognized. It was half cheating, because he’d have been surprised if Navigator Lizet Asylkan wasn’t around—she’d claimed one of the tiny crew quarters for her own and was staying on the ship with Gavril. She’d arrived the second day, a trader-family referral from Chief Ferrsi of Planetary Law Enforcement. Gavril liked Lizet, which was more than he could say for the other contractors they’d shuffled through the project. He reached out and tried to determine whether she was above him or below him, and how far. The ship’s newly reinforced incalloy skeleton made his efforts more challenging.
Gulorom’s voice in the earwire broke his concentration. “Try it now.”
Gavril rotated the holo interface in front of him to focus on the system drives. “No change. Still only seeing three out of six coils.” They’d added two coils to compensate for escaping Pol-G’s gravity with full cargo holds.
Gulorom swore in her native Afro-French. “I’ll ping you when I’m ready for another test.”
Gavril’s stiff back complained loudly enough to make him get up and walk small circles around the navigator seat, twisting from side to side as he did. His regular exercise routine had gone by the wayside since he’d gotten stuck on Pol-G, and he was paying for it now. He promised himself that once he got his own ship back, with its well-equipped exercise room, everything would go back to normal. He wished he knew when that would be. Or that he was sure he wanted it anymore.
Lizet pinged his earwire. “I’m hitting the MODs hold. Want anything?” Though the galley now worked perfectly, they were too busy to use it, and mostly subsisted on a cargo hold full of ready-made mealpacks, or meals of the day, as Lizet called them. The double-wide container full of mealpacks had come from his ship. The cost of the cargo was a small price to pay for the return of his livelihood.
“No, Anitra is taking me out for dinner tonight.” They’d maintained the fiction of a non-professional relationship to give them cover for their clandestine scouting activities.
“Lucky you. Ask her if she’s heard anything about Uncle Setro.”
“Will do.” Lizet’s uncle was a pilot with a big merchant ship, and both had vanished two weeks ago. The family was understandably worried.
In the pilot’s quarters, Gavril dressed in his lucky blue jacket and the nicer clothes he’d retrieved from his own ship, but packed work clothes and toiletries in an overnight bag, as though he expected to spend the night with his casual hot-connect sex partner. If it had been real, he admitted to himself, it wouldn’t be casual, at least on his part. But the timing tanked.
He selected one of the dozens of vehicles that Anitra had redirected to the ship dock for warehousing. The planetary weather AI predicted rain, so he went with the lumbering but rock-steady ground hauler, in case the cache needed emptying that evening. Best to be prepared in case the universe was in a generous mood.
Seventy minutes later, he met Anitra in the lobby of a well-lit, inviting restaurant on the ground floor of a multi-use building. He greeted her with a warm kiss, partly for their cover, and partly because he wanted to. She was a fascinating, strong, and sexy woman who fired his jets.
At their table, he poured water for them both from the filtered pitcher. “I like your tunic. It suits you.” The layers of turquoise blue and floral gold hugged her figure and accentuated her rounded breasts and narrow waist. Flashes of gold and copper in her dark hair and makeup gave her an artistic flare. He could easily imagine her being the star of an exclusive art show.
“Thanks. I was tired of the corporate suits.” She nodded toward him. “You look great in that vest.” She gave him a rakish smile. “Very pirate clan.”
He laughed to cover his surprise. The embroidered and pieced vest of hand-woven fabrics was one of the few things he had of his long-dead father’s, who had indeed been pirate clan. He didn’t mention it often, because it made customs inspectors nervous and Space Div surly. He didn’t remember mentioning it to Anitra during their previous fling, either, but he didn’t remember everything the way filers did. If he had to be a minder, he would have preferred that talent, or Anitra’s shields, over his unruly empath talent any day.
None of the twenty or thirty other restaurant patrons were broadcasting at the moment, but all it would take is one public argument to make everyone tense, and Gavril’s shaky containment would be overwhelmed. Anitra had told him that most empaths thrived on people and physical contact, and maybe that was true, but he didn’t like them in groups.
Mindful of the public venue, he and Anitra chatted about trivia. Fortunately, the food was good and plentiful, enough for him to take a carton back to the ship for Lizet.
Anitra paid the tab without wincing at the superorbital prices, making him wonder if the government reimbursed her expenses, or she had funds of her own. He resolutely told himself it wasn’t his business. She hadn’t asked anything about his finances.
He’d had to park the ground hauler three blocks away, but it was close enough to walk. The neighborhood was a combination of commercial and light industrial, with the unrepaired scars of road traffic on the glass pavement, and of course, the ubiquitous white dust everywhere, like spattered powdered sugar. The roads were unexpectedly devoid of ground traffic.
They turned a corner westward, which put them walking into the wind. The afternoon’s brief rain left lingering humidity, making it feel colder than fall should be. He sealed his jacket, and Anitra tightened her scarf.
An echo, or a smell, or maybe a brush against his talent caught his attention. He certainly felt it when Anitra dropped her shield. Multiple threads of anger teased the edges of his talent.
“Riot,” they both said almost together as they slowed.
“Coming this way,” she added.
He glanced up the street toward where the threads originated, but didn’t see anything. “Let’s go back to the restaurant.”
They turned around and headed back the way they’d come, walking quickly.
She stumbled, but righted herself. “These shoes are cursed.” She slowed a little. “Last time I wore them, we had a freak storm, and I had to tromp through forty centimeters of snow.”
“I can carry you.” He unexpectedly flashed on a memory of carrying her, laughing, into the bedroom of the hotel where they’d lived for a week. He’d loved the strength of her under her womanly curves.
She chuckled. “No need, but thanks for the offer.”
More threads of anger pushed at his talent, and he got a whiff of something burning. He glanced up to the west, but the height of the buildings blocked any view.
They heard the first distant shouts just as they half-ran across the street to get to the restaurant.
The moment they got inside, she sent him to find the manager while she convinced the greeter to lock the front door.
He only saw servers out front, so he walked straight back into the kitchen area.
A roly-poly man in green moved to intercept Gavril and made vigorous shooing motions toward him. “You go back and sit down.” His English was heavily accented with Mandarin. “Servers take care of you.”
Gavril shook his head. “There’s a riot coming this way. You need to close up.”
The man’s eyes widened in shock, and Gavril felt the man’s rising panic. “No riots here!” He looked to the chef in pale pink. “They said no riots!”
“Well, there’s one now.” Gavril put steel in his voice. “Go turn out the front lights.”
The manager hesitated, then pushed past Gavril and headed into the dining area. Gavril turned to the chef in pink. “If you have a back door, lock it, and turn out any street lights. From what I’ve seen, looters take advantage of riots.”
The chef quickly ordered one of his staff to comply. They were a calmer lot, perhaps because their high-stress kitchen environment better prepared them for emergencies.
He found Anitra looking out the front door. She turned to him and stepped close. “Are you up for trying an intermediate lesson?” She touched her temple, to mean his empath talent. “We need to project calm, especially to the manager.”
He shifted his weight uneasily. “I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you do, but you don’t know you’re doing it.” She slipped her hand into his. “Feel this.” She dropped her shields, and a subtle blue of calm brushed by him. “Now this.” Shades of orange and pink comfort mixed into the blue strands. She leaned into him in half embrace, her mouth next to his ear. “Those aren’t my feelings, they’re reflections of yours. Well, some of them. You’re also worried and annoyed, and skeptical.”
He put his arm around her waist and spoke quietly. “It feels out of focus.”
She nodded. “Probably because you’re stronger than I am.” She darted a glance toward the manager, who was now stabbing at a wallcomp, darkening random lights in the restaurant. She touched the center of his chest. “Find those confident and happy parts of you and share them with him. Sometimes, it helps to think of something relaxing you want him to enjoy, too. Not sex—that’s too hard to control.”
“I’ll try,” he said, hoping he didn’t screw it up. He was vain enough to want to impress her.
He concentrated on the tangled skein of grays of worry and whites of fear that came from the manager, mixed with a few threads of blue for confidence and ochre for pride. Gavril thought of a deep-tissue massage, of how soothing it felt to ease tight muscles, then tried to weave the purplish hue of contentment into the manager’s skein. Surprisingly, it worked. Inspired, he used his talent to tug on the blue and ochre threads, to bring them to the top.
“Not so fast,” whispered Anitra. “Don’t want him to feel chemmed.”
He concentrated on nudging the grays and whites aside to make room for the brighter colors.
“Good. Now see if you can do the same for the greeter.”
The greeter was less agitated, so it was easier to push away the grays of worry and the green of exasperation in favor of the underlying confident blue.
“Yes, you’ve got it.” Anitra smiled. “You’re better than you think.”
He smiled and tightened his arm on her waist. “Are you helping?”
“No… Oh, frelling hell.”
He followed her gaze out the glass door. Flames rose from behind the rooftops across the street. The restaurant’s soundproofing blocked any street noise.
She pointed to the front window. “The restaurant is still lit up like a Solstice Day display.”
Gavril let go of Anitra to cross to the manager. “Kill the lights and the sign now, or we’ll be a shiny egg to crack.”
The manager shook his head. “The sign is run by the building’s computer.” He pointed to the ceiling. “No controls here.”
Anitra stepped up. “Can you black the window wall? Or at least dim the lights up front?”
The nearby greeter shook her head. “The wall only goes to gray.” She frowned at the thick glass. “They’ll see any inside lights.” She tilted her head toward the dining area. “It’s not safe to leave people in the dark.”
“Do what you can,” said Gavril.
As the greeter and the manager turned back to the wallcomp, Anitra slipped her hand in Gavril’s and pulled him toward the door.
“Advanced lesson. See if you can tell where the rioters are, how many are in the group, and if they’re coming this way.”
He didn’t want his talent anywhere near an angry crowd, but he’d like being attacked by well-armed looters even less. He closed his eyes and reached out with his talent.
Anitra squeezed his hand. “Eyes open. Don’t make yourself unnecessarily vulnerable.”
He opened his eyes to look out the darkening door glass. His talent found the roiling tangles of clashing colors. He made himself glide over the grasping, glowing skeins to get a sense of numbers.
“Feels like the crowd in the tax office, so a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred?” He glanced at her. “There’s a big knot of them northeast of here, but a smaller band of them moving south and west.” He pointed out the window toward the roadway intersection. “Coming from there, I think.”
“The fire will drive some of them away, but not enough.” She frowned. Though he wasn’t focused on her, his wide-open talent told him she was deeply worried and wary. “I can protect us, but I’ll need your help, and I can’t answer questions. You’ll have to trust me.”
He sensed fear in her, but he trusted she knew her capabilities. “Okay.”
A small thread of relief surfaced in the fascinating skein of her emotions. “If you can keep the people in here from panicking, I’ll do what I can to keep the rioters uninterested in the restaurant.”
“How will… sorry.” He grimaced. “Any suggestions on how to keep thirty people calm, when I’m not?”
“Drift around them, or whatever metaphor works for you, but don’t get caught up in them—that’s the siren song for all empaths. Send them calm, like what you did with the manager. Keep an eye out for spikes of whatever colors you see that mean fear, because that cascades downhill fast. If you find any minders who notice what you’re doing, skip over them if you can, or send them apologetic feelings. If you find other empaths, they might be willing to help.” She glanced grimly toward the door. “Keep everyone away from me, if you can.”
He started to step away, but she stopped him. “Not you.” She touched the side of his face. “You’re my anchor.”
The complex colors of her emotional skein flared. Before he had time to interpret them, they desaturated as she turned to face the door.
He turned to face the dining area and crossed his arms, mimicking a resolute enforcer, though he wasn’t dressed for the part. He reached out with his talent to get a feel for what he was up against. The clumps of threads called out to his talent, but he managed to ignore the individuals in favor of the group. He thought of it as multi-hued fog. Wariness predominated, with clouds of anger and fear, and smaller clouds of determination and contentment, mostly from what he took to be the kitchen staff. The characteristic oasis of darkness told him one of the diners was a shielder.
He tried borrowing the calmer colors from the kitchen staff and pushing them into the larger fog, but it had no effect. The white of fear flared closer to him. The manager stood near the darkened window wall, looking out. His wide eyes and frozen expression reflected in the glass.
Gavril couldn’t spare the focus to keep the manager calm. He edged closer to the greeter and caught her attention. “Tell the manager the kitchen needs him.”
She nodded and approached the manager as Gavril went back to his self-appointed position at Anitra’s back.
He extended his talent again and felt the fear-white wave of the manager as he navigated around the tables of diners.
Determination surfaced in Anitra’s threads, making him want to find out what she was doing. He resolutely turned his talent back to the diners and their billows of color. Since his contentment technique worked with the manager, he called up the sense memory of a massage and visualized sending it like a gentle breeze into the fog. After several long moments, he was gratified to see a subtle shift, darkening from fear white to wary dull brown.
He wafted through the fog, sharing his contentment turquoise wherever he found the duller colors. He hunched his shoulders against the increasingly painful tingling of clashing colors behind him, which had to be the rioters. They ebbed and flowed, but none of them bunched or slowed nearby. Soothing them was well beyond his barely beginner abilities.
He forced himself to ignore everything but the diners in the restaura
nt and the cooks in the kitchen, shaping himself to fit into their much more pleasant fog. To his talent, the shielder he’d noticed before kept moving around, and it took him a bit to reconcile what his eyes told him. The shielder was one of the servers.
Gavril lost track of time, tending the foggy mists before him and ignoring the pins and needles behind him. He was soaked with sweat by the time Anitra touched his arm. “You can pull back now.”
The pins and needles were gone. He spent agonizing moments trying to reel his talent back in, but his weak containment failed. That disability had driven him to become a trader who spent days and weeks in transit with no other humans around to stress him. He closed his eyes, but it only made things worse. Anger rose in him, and suddenly, he was seeing it start to affect the colors in the fog. “Fark!”
He felt her touch on his arm again. “Do you need a shield?”
He clenched his jaw hard and nodded.
Her shield descended over him like a dark net. His over-stimulated talent fought to be free, but he tensed every muscle he had until the talent retreated, like a sullen child, into the corner of his mind.
He opened his eyes and found her standing in front of him, shielding him with her body as well as her mind. She looked pale, with bruised eyes, like she hadn’t slept in a week.
“Are you sick?” He pushed his damp hair off his forehead.
“Blowback.” She glanced up at the planetary time display on the wall, then back to him. “It’ll pass.”
He gave her a puzzled look that invited her to explain.
“Talent overuse often causes negative physical feedback.” She glanced at his chest, where his shirt was soaked. “You drip like a rainforest. I get sinus congestion.”
He turned and moved closer to the restaurant’s darkened window wall. He felt Anitra step up next to him as he looked out. The buildings across the street looked scarred, like someone had thrown acid. The roadway was unaccountably wet in spots.
Anitra pointed toward the still visible flames to the west. “The fire crew turned the water on the rioters. They dispersed.” She rubbed her eyes. Her voice sounded nasal and congested. “The police issued a lockdown for all transportation and businesses in the area.”